“That all sounds convincing,” Matthew finally responded, pulling Fotis back to the present moment, “until Tomas and the icon vanish.”

“Tomas was stealing funds. It’s an unrelated matter.” Strange that the truth should sound so suspect.

“Well, then I guess that leaves just you.”

“You are forgetting Anton.”

“Do you deny that you’ve wanted the icon for sixty years? Since my Papou showed it to you during the war, before his brother hid it away? An hour, a few minutes, is all it took, am I right? And you were hooked for life. You had to have it.”

“Are you speaking of me,” Fotis replied, the insight striking him at once, “or yourself?”

“Yes,” Matthew nodded, undeterred, “I’ve felt it. That’s how I know.”

What was this? Was the boy a rival? Was this more serious than he had imagined, and could some use be made of it? But no, he mustn’t think that way; this was Matthew.

“I am tired now. We should speak again tomorrow.”

“What happened that night the church burned? Where were you? Why weren’t you with the men Andreas sent to retrieve the weapons?”

“So he has finally spoken of it.”

“Did you know Kosta would tell Stamatis where the icon was hidden, and that he would try to get it? Were you waiting for him to come out? Am I close?” Too damn close. The boy was relentless, never taking his eyes off Fotis. “Or maybe you sent Stamatis in yourself, and then he decided to double-cross you. Is that it?”

“You are growing disturbed, my child. You are creating fantasies. This business has become too much for you. It’s time to let it go.”

“Let it go?” With sudden, furious energy, Matthew swept the breakfast tray to the ground and leaned right over the other man.

“Let it go? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m up to my neck it in, and you led me there. You owe me these answers, you old bastard.”

Fotis became frightened; not of the boy, but of something, the broken fragments of truth beginning to reassemble. For a moment, he thought it was Andreas standing there above him.

“You all betrayed me,” he whispered, “all of you.”

“Who betrayed you? How?”

“One is going to trade it, the other sell it. Guns, money. Only I loved it for what it was, only I could keep it safe. You fool, don’t you see?” He grabbed Matthew’s shirt, and his face broke; the tears came. “Don’t you see, paidemou? Only I can keep it safe. Won’t you help me?”

The large silhouette of Taki appeared in the door, making them both turn, breaking the spell. Fotis shoved Matthew away weakly.

“I heard the noise,” said Taki, both fierce and bashful, looking at the scattered plates and cup on the floor.

“He was just leaving,” Fotis said hoarsely. “Show him out.”

Matthew sized up the larger man for a moment, then relaxed. There would be no struggle. He gave Fotis a long look-was it confusion, compassion, or something else entirely?-and then started for the door.

“My boy, wait,” said the Snake. The younger man stopped, Taki’s hand on his shoulder, but he did not turn back to look.

“Saturday night. The services at Saint Demetrios. You will accompany me? Please?”

Matthew glanced back at him briefly. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

“We will speak further about all this.”

But Matthew was already headed down the stairs.

15

The rain-dampened woods around the house produced a fine mist as the day warmed. The effect evoked a sense memory in Andreas that he could not quite grasp: a cove by the sea, a pale morning fog, and the desire to stay there upon that warm, wet ground where he’d slept-not pick up the rifle by his side, not rejoin his fellow soldiers, but simply stay there, disappear in the mist. When had it been, what had happened next? He could not say. Half a lifetime ago and more, before his brother died, before he’d met Maria, years before the son and grandson who so troubled him now had ever drawn their first breaths.

He had abandoned the heavy coat and hat and felt somehow exposed, even in the safety of his son’s backyard. Alex leaned upon the fence beside him, shaky, but under his own power, and stared out at the shadowy trunks.

“You couldn’t stop him from going?”

“I didn’t know,” Andreas answered. “He didn’t tell me.”

“The police will believe he’s involved now.”

“He is involved.”

“You know what I mean. That he and Fotis dreamed it up together. Everything. The theft also.”

“Let us hope they are wiser. His actions that day make no sense if he was an accomplice.”

“Why haven’t you gone after him?”

“He does not want my assistance.”

“You’re going to make him face the schemer alone?”

“He does not trust me, Aleko. You and Fotis have seen to that.” The younger man looked as if he would protest, but held his peace. “I too am responsible, of course,” Andreas amended.

“Did you speak to him?”

“About the icon, you mean? Yes. Too late, but we spoke.”

“It should have perished in that church. It would have saved everyone a lot of pain.”

“I have thought that before now.”

Alex turned slightly to look at him.

“Does it trouble you? That you gave it to the Germans? Does that ever keep you awake at night?”

Andreas shook his head. He would be answering the question the rest of his life.

“I once watched Fotis cut the fingers off a German prisoner. A young man. He did not know the answers to Fotis’ questions, but it didn’t matter. Later, he cut the boy’s throat.” He moved some damp earth with his shoe. “Another time, I shot a communist guerrilla in the hills above Tsotili. I executed him. For spreading lies, and for being a communist. A good reason to kill a man, don’t you think? Have you heard these things already?”

“Not from you.”

“I saw an American reporter fished out of the harbor in Thessaloniki, hands tied, skull shot through, because he spoke to the wrong people. I watched dozens of men, young and old, beaten until they confessed to things they had not done. Once I even saw them take a woman-”

“Why are you telling me this now? I asked you questions for years and you never said a word, not a word.”

“Why do you imagine I’m telling you?”

“I don’t know. So I’ll say it’s all right, that I understand?”

“Your forgiveness,” the old man spat bitterly, and Alex looked away. “Do you imagine your forgiveness could matter? You who have lived his whole adult life in this soft, fat country? There are things for which I would have your forgiveness, Aleko, many things, but not these. No one can pardon me, and I seek no pardon. But can you think, in the face of what I’ve seen, that a damned painting could mean anything? Do you really believe that is what keeps me awake?”

“All right, then. But here it is, back with us again. And it has its talons in my son now.”

“I did not cause that.”

“And you did not prevent it, either.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Find it.”

“Find it. Then what?”

“Burn it, bury it, give it back to the church, I don’t care. Get it out of his life. It is a danger to him, missing or found.”

“Finding it will not be so easy.”

“Of course not. If it were easy, I would do it myself. It will take someone of your skills.”

“Which skills? Killing, lying, planting tomatoes?”

“Hunting.”

“I hunted men, not paintings.”

“Hunt the men who have it.”

“That is beyond what I can do. There are too many possibilities.”

“Use your friends.”

“You are as bad as Fotis, imagining I still have useful connections. My friends are few, and do not take instruction from an old man like me. The police investigation will be well ahead of us, and I have no influence there.”

“So you’ll do nothing.”

“I did not say that.”

Alex rocked on his heels impatiently, looking back toward the house.

“What then?”